


I Will Wait For You

by HappyArcher



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Possible Character Death, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyArcher/pseuds/HappyArcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only the sight of their brother through the opening, on his knees, with a musket to his head from the tall man behind him that gave them pause. </p>
<p>“Put the swords down… or I will shoot this Musketeer where he kneels.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes at the end.

_“Porthos, GO!”_

_““I’m not leaving you, ‘Mis!”_

_The words echoed almost hollowly through the clashing of swords, metal reverberating as if struck by the very trees they were surrounded by. The grunts sounded with a ferocity as Porthos swung his sword to clatter against one of the many men who had ambushed the four Musketeers on a routine mission as they headed back toward Paris.  
“Don’t be a fool! Go! Take D’Artagnan and go!” _

_Porthos spun on his heel to reprimand his friend but found only ten men separating them, grinning as half walked toward him whilst the other half began to crowd the injured Aramis, crawling to reach his sword five feet away._

\-------------------------------------------

 

Athos’ hand clenched tightly, too hard for the glass that held the rich red wine procured by the Captain that very day, the line already reaching close to the bottom of the bottle. The glass shattered and spooked a nearby horse as Athos held his gloved hand up a little, watching the drops of red drip sullenly onto the Garrison table. The sight, drip drip drip, mesmerised him for a moment… the feeling of dread washing over him and brought a cold shiver as a partner.

“Well that is a waste.” D’Artagnan took a heavy seat beside him on the bench, eyeing the red wine flowing through the creaks of the bench. “Treville said that was expensive.” The quirked eyebrow was the only facial expression he was willing to give.

“I… sincerely doubt that.” Athos reached over the table and lifted the remaining bottle, still holding the last of the wine, to his lips and quickly let it flow down his throat. Silence crept over the two soldiers, comfortable but pained as the recognisable unspoken thoughts floated between them. “Have you seen Porthos?” Athos broke it, his voice barely above a whisper before he finished the wine off with a flourish, pushing the bottle far from his body, smearing the spilled wine still running freely.

“Not since the night before last. Do you think…?” 

“No.” Athos sighed and stood slowly from his perch, accepting the extra hand as the boundless energy of the youth helped him up. “He will be in the tavern by the Court of Miracles. It always did offer him some form of comfort.”

\----------------------------------------  
_  
Porthos roared as he parried another blow from the side, his feet involuntarily taking him backwards as he moved to avoid the onslaught of swords suddenly in front of him. A hand curled into his back collar and pulled him back, Porthos quickly realising Athos stood tall beside him, blood oozing slowly down the side of his face._

_“D’Artagnan!?” Porthos questioned quickly, teeth bared from the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins. The shake of the head was enough before their swords were raised and once again clashing with the opposing metal._

_Spinning around, his sword directed away an attack before his foot lifted the dagger that escaped, grasping it with his free hand to plunge it straight through the heart of another attacker. His sword hand was wrenched back and the guttural moan that escaped from his own lips assured him that his shoulder had been dislocated. It wouldn’t stop him from getting to his brother._

_Suddenly the swords stopped advancing and Athos returned to his side, both panting whilst their eyes darted between the enemies who were grinning, the odd one goading them with small twitches forward. It was only the sight of their brother through the opening, on his knees, with a musket to his head from the tall man behind him that gave them pause._

_“Put the swords down… or I will shoot this Musketeer where he kneels.”_

\---------------------------------------------------

Porthos stared at the bowl of… well, one could never be sure exactly what the meat was that swirled at the top of the broth like liquid. He had been optimistic to think that his stomach would have been able to handle the stench that wafted from the sour meal but even the grumbling could only be ignored for so long. He pushed the spoon across the top, watching how the meat broke up as if too tender… no doubt it had only been battered enough times for quantity sake.

One year. It had been one year yesterday since he had lost his friend. His brother. Yet another one to add to his ever growing roster of losses. That thought alone made him growl and lift the tankard of cheap wine to his lips. Baring all of his teeth slowly at the sharp taste, Porthos’ eyed lifted slowly to stare at the entrance of the two who wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Athos. D’Artagnan.” He said by way of greeting as they dropped to the seats around him, eyeing the empty bottle of wine on his table. 

“We thought you had ran away.” Athos spoke, even as his eyes casually scanned around the tavern. “Yet here we are not for the first time, in a tavern in the morning.” Finally his gaze settled onto the bigger Musketeer, D’Artagnan staying particularly quiet at the heaviness of the anniversary. “Treville wishes to see us. It is a matter of importance, I’m sure you can understand.”

“Treville can push it up-“

“You don’t mean that.” The youngest Musketeer cut in quickly, his voice deep as he stared unblinkingly at Porthos. No, he didn’t mean it but as always he thought perhaps it might feel better by voicing it nonetheless. Porthos sighed and shook his head in a way of an agreement with the statement, using a hand to push himself up.

“We shouldn’t keep the Captain waiting then, should we?”

\-------------------------------------------------  
_  
“I am Athos of the King’s Musketeers. Put the gun down, Sir, and perhaps we can talk like gentlemen?” Athos’ voice was strong and carried easily over the wind, the monotone unwilling to show the concern he felt as he refused to let his eyes drop to his brother in need._

_Aramis swayed dangerously on his knees, only the firm grip of the man behind him into his hair holding him upright. His breeches were soaked red down his left side, the hole in the trousers the clear indication that the musket ball had been what had caused the Musketeer to drop to the ground. His eyes were unfocused and his jaw slack, seemingly unaware of the gun loaded against his head._

_“I do believe I requested that first, Athos of the King’s Musketeers.” The man almost sneered the title in mockery, the gun digging even further into Aramis’ scalp. The man was tall and bulky but shamefully missing of any muscles. Rather, only fat seemed to wrap around his bones as if desperate to keep warm. “And I daresay that I am unquestionably holding the better cards here… so to speak.” He smirked, showing teeth whilst he nodded to Aramis at his feet. “I am not a patient man, Athos of the King’s Musketeers. You have three seconds to drop your weapons before I shoot and much like Aramis here… I never miss this close to the target._

_Porthos’ eyes jumped to Athos quickly, his fingers already uncurling from his weapon to drop it to the ground if the order was given._

_“One…”_

_“Don’t do this!” Athos voice rang out._

_“Two.”_

_“This is murder!” Athos voice lost its mask of indifference, his eyes wild as he stepped forward only slightly at the situation. He spoke at the same time of Porthos’ hushed voice muttering his name in warning._

_“Three.” Athos and Porthos dropped their weapons at the last moment, thrusting them forward with a clatter on the ground signalling their surrender._

\--------------------------------------------

Captain Treville leant forward onto his desk with his hands, his eyes wandering over the three drained Musketeers in front of him. It pained him to see them with still the haunted look on their faces. It was like Savoy all over again, only with an additional face that should never have been granted such loss in such a short life. 

“I have a job for you. In one of the villages south of Paris. We have reports that a specialised group has been passing through the various towns, pillaging and taking.”

“Bandits?” D’Artagnan asked curiously.

“No. At least, we don’t think so.” Treville pulled across a large sheet of parchment, motioning for the three to come closer. It should have been four but he quickly pushed those thoughts away. Running his fingers over the crisp map, he gestured to the various villages that had been hit so far. “It is not gold that they have been taking but weapons. No matter how big or small. Livestock, food, armour, musket balls…”

“They’re collecting for an army.” Athos cut in, his brow furrowing as his eyes swept over the pattern. Gloved hands moved across and paused over a new village yet to be raided, two hours out of Paris by horse.

“We believe so and we need to find out who and why. This must be kept quiet though… any undue noise around Paris and panic will cause us more problems than good. The last thing we need is a Civil War within the Capital if this is already happening outside.”

\-------------------------------------------------  
_  
Aramis’ eyes lifted in a moment of sudden clarity, his eyes focusing in on Porthos. Inside the larger Musketeer saw pain, delirious anger and beyond anything, fear. It wasn’t an emotion that the Romantic normally showed and yet, there it was clear as day._

_Athos’ hands lifted to show that he meant no harm, eyes fixated not on Aramis but on the man standing behind him. Any slight movement, any potential threat needed to be considered._

_“Good! Good. You are capable of doing exactly as instructed. Leaving it to the final moments though… how very dramatic of you.” The man smiled sharply, refusing to move the musket from Aramis’ head. Confusion fluttered across the Musketeers face as if he was only looking at the scene in front of him for the first time._

_“We did as requested. Now release the man in your hold as we will be on our-“_

_The sound of the Musket going off made him stop, his mouth dropping open even at the sound of the fierce roar that escaped from Porthos. They watched helpless as Aramis was released, the weight of his now still body dropping forward and collapsing onto the ground. Blood began to pool beneath his body from the wound on his leg and from the shot fired from the musket._

_Heavy breathing was the only sound that eclipsed the battle ground for a few beats of silence before a solitary “Oops” came from the smirking man. Athos was the first to act, once more curling his hand into Porthos’ collar and pulling him back, rushing the both of them to the horses where a slumped D’Artagnan gaped on his own mount, hand pushed strongly against the wound in his side._

_“Go. Go. Go!” They ran as the countless men charged after them, barely giving them a moment to think before the three bolted, sounds reduced to nothing more than a dull roar in their ears.  
_


	2. Marksman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't bare keeping those that have commented in suspense for long so here's another chapter. I have a tingly feeling that this could end up being a long story!
> 
> Again, completely unbeta'd and I did this quite quickly so there are bound to be mistakes! My apologies in advance!

Porthos smiled, mouth strained even as he looked at his two fellow Musketeers. Two, of course, not three. It hadn’t been a crowd since a year ago to the very day. When it had happened. Naturally Porthos knew that his attitude couldn’t continue, not when he still had his two friends by his side. Treville had explained how nobody should have had to have gone through watching their friend... he had corrected him to Brother, die in front of them with a musket. No-one. Yet they were soldiers and it came with the position.

“Have you listened to anything that was just said?” D’Artagnan had leaned forward, his eyes catching Porthos’ with slight amusement. They had been trying to distract him as much as possible as they followed Treville’s orders to prepare to ride out. The Captain had been right of course, they couldn’t allow a civil war to brew up. Not with the recent threats coming from Spain and the less than friendly letters from the English to King Louis. Tensions were high enough without a revolution inside their own borders.

“Course I have. I don't see you saddling up though, lad.”

D’Artagnan smirked, shrugging as if the World hadn’t crashed down on his shoulders in the past year. Porthos envied him for that.

“Once a farm boy, always a farm boy, right? Isn’t that what you always used to say?” The light confusion adorning Porthos’ face made it clear it had not been he who had said it and the momentary look of sadness on the young features made it clear he had remembered who had. “Will it get easier?”

“Never easier. Only different. We must adapt.” A new voice joined the fray and turning slightly, Porthos watched Athos stride in, another following closely in his steps. “This is Musketeer François le Gaskell. He will be joining us.”

D’Artagnan made to step forward to welcome the Musketeer but was halted abruptly in his steps by a sharp “no” from Porthos. The bandana had been wound tightly around his head to capture any sweat already making itself known from the barn and leather. It hadn’t prevented him from spotting the loaded long barrelled musket by his side, nor the familiar cloth one used to wipe hands carefully when aiming from a distance. “No.”

Arthos blinked, though it was not in surprise or in confusion, merely in resigned acceptance as if he had expected this. “We do not have a choice regarding the Captain’s orders. Gaskell is to join us on this mission.” Their appointed leader glanced at the boy, sensing the tension probably added to the shyness Gaskell had displayed before.

“As a replacement?!”

“As a marksman. If would be unwise to go without one. Gaskell is one of the best shots in the regiment... so I’m told.”

“Second best actually! After... well...”

The growl from Porthos was only intercepted by a quick D’Artagnan who once again leaned forward, shaking a shivering hand with a pained nod. 

“Welcome aboard I suppose!”  
\--------------------------------------------  
_”Turn the hell around, Athos.”_

_Porthos turned his mount around quickly, glaring at Athos harshly even in the deep sun from above. Their hats had long been lost during the battle and with little time to retrieve them, their skin was already beginning to tighten._

_“D’Artagnan is hurt. As are you.”_

_“Aramis could be dying right now and you want to abandon him?!”_

_“Porthos…” This time it was D’Artagnan who spoke, though his voice was weary, his hand still clutching his wound. “Porthos… you must have seen…”_

_“No. We do not give up. Not until we know.”_

_Athos remained quiet, his foot sliding easily from his stirrup to dismount, letting his horse lean down to lap at the small rivulet of water. “D’Artagnan is injured. So are you. Even if-”_

_Porthos’ horse took a step forward, a huff coming from both animal and rider as if in sync._

_“Even if he is ok, we are in no shape to fight off that number. We need to speak to Treville.”_

_Porthos’ gaze drifted between their leader and D’Artagnan quickly, a rumble in his chest matching the thunderous expression he gave from seeing their faces._

_“I will never leave a man behind.” With a kick, Porthos’ horse shot forward, the canter carrying his aching body forward._

\-------------------------------------------  
D’Artagnan had to give Gaskell some respect. The kid was trying his best to blend in. After clearly deeming Porthos a no-go area, Athos had been next on the cards to try and get conversation from. Normally that very thought would have been amusing, but it was almost disappointing to see the levelled glare of their esteemed group leader be sent in the direction of the newly added Musketeer.

It meant the conversation tactic had fallen on him.

“Don’t worry about them. It’s been a rough time.”

“I can’t imagine.” Gaskell shifted in his saddle, huffing a little and tilting his hat back just a little. “The recruits… they uh, were so jealous when I was given this by the Captain. Go join the inseparables as their marksman.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes winced a little at the nickname. It was one they had avoided as of late.

“You’re a new recruit then? I didn’t think I had seen you around the Garrison much.”

“Yeah. This is my second mission. Treville was impressed with my first apparently. He said my shooting resembled a man he used to know. He never told me who though.”

Humming slightly, D’Artagnan turned his head back to look ahead, watching the taut back of Porthos who clearly had been listening in, albeit reluctantly. Gaskell was young and his body was yet to be scarred from battle but there was a clear eagerness there. The Gascon could relate and whilst the years had removed a large portion of his naivety, he knew it was still a good quality to have. Innocence was wasted on the youth.

“The Captain is a good man.”

\------------------------------------------  
_Brave. Assured. Happy._

_Weren’t they the emotions he was supposed to feel when he was staring at his brothers in arms, their bodies covered in the grim dirt of a battlefield? Instead his neck was tired. Why was his neck tired?_

_His head rolled slightly despite the grip in his hair and once his brown eyes settled almost casually back on Porthos’ face, it almost felt like he had broken into a gallop without any warning. The wind suddenly rushed past him and clarity stood strong in his eyes as he realised, for the most part, what was happening. He tried to cover the fear that instinctively came from a musket being pushed against your head though judging by the expressions being shone his way by his brothers, it wasn’t working very well._

_He was distantly aware of Athos speaking although the words sounded like they were being said underwater. Knees were swaying dangerously and the incessant pressure from his leg wasn’t helping things. His hand brushed warily against the leg, coming up bright scarlet before his arm fell back to his side._

_He had just got these trousers and they’d cost him a pretty penny. Perhaps Constance would sew them up for him._

_Confused eyes watched the weapons of his brothers be thrown in front of them. That wasn’t going to help the situation and with a swipe of his tongue across his chapped lips, he prepared to tell them so. He had a date that evening after all and it would be terribly rude of him to be late._

_The sound of a musket going off blew whatever hearing he had left from the concussion, but he barely noticed it from the agony that tore through his left shoulder. Without a hand to hold him, his body slumped forward and slammed into the ground, hands never prepared to catch him in time._

_Once more his hair was gripped tightly, lifting his head for him to let his eyes focus in on the three horses bolting, owners on top not looking back. Why were they leaving?  
“Looks like you’re not as popular as you think, Aramis.”_

_Why were his brothers leaving? ___

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I am posting fiction in a long while and thus I have not got anyone to Beta it (volunteers welcome). This was originally the first chapter of quite a long story but we'll see how this goes first.


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